


All We Need

by 1848pianist



Series: Miles to Go Before I Sleep [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chicago (City), Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and Combeferre take the day off from exploring the city and spend it in Combeferre's apartment instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All We Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JehanFerres](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/gifts).



> Seriously this is so much fluff, like critical levels of fluff

Jehan woke up at a more reasonable hour than the day before, but Combeferre was still already up, sipping tea and clearly very much awake.

“Tell me your secret,” Jehan said tiredly. “Although, jet lag certainly isn’t helping my alertness.”

Combeferre looked up curiously from his book. “I like mornings.”

Jehan shook his head, burying his nose in Combeferre’s hair. “What’s on the agenda for today, O Riser of Dawn?”

Combeferre turned his head, pressing his cheek against Jehan’s. “I was thinking a break from museums. Especially after yesterday’s disaster.” He snuck a kiss in before Jehan could reply, drawing out a smile from the other man.

“It wasn’t a disaster,” Jehan reassured him. “But a break sounds good to me.”

“We can stay in – get takeout and watch a movie or something,” suggested Combeferre.   “Whatever you want.”

Jehan agreed. “Who needs the city?”

           

Two cups of tea later, Jehan thought he was finally awake. He had to admit, he could see the appeal in being up so early. There were lots of windows in Combeferre’s apartment, and every one of them had a different view of the sunrise. Jehan wanted to write then and there, compose on the spot something just as beautiful as the view. Neither of them spoke; Combeferre continued reading, glancing up every few minutes, and Jehan contemplated nothing in particular in silence. At some point, Jehan’s hand came to rest on Combeferre’s leg. His hand was tangled in Jehan’s hair.

When the sun became blinding, Jehan turned to watch Combeferre read, enjoying the play of sunlight on the other man’s face.

“What are you reading?” he finally asked, breaking the silence naturally, as though there had never been one. Combeferre smiled, tilting the book up so Jehan could see the title. It was a philosophy text by someone Jehan had heard of but never read.

“What’s it about?” Instead of answering, Combeferre read aloud. His reading voice deeper than normal, Jehan noticed.

“Go on,” he said when Combeferre had finished. He obliged, and Jehan leaned his head on his shoulder. He could see the book now and could read it for himself if he chose, but closed his eyes instead, the better to listen to Combeferre’s voice. Jehan could feel the slight vibration through the bone of his cheek.

“Your turn,” Combeferre said with a smile when he reached the end of the chapter.

Jehan grinned back. “I have just the thing.” He ran off in search of his suitcase, returning with a notebook full of his own handwriting.

“Your own?” Combeferre asked.

“Not entirely,” Jehan replied, opening it to the first page.

The first poem was Keats, which Combeferre thought he recognized from school, or maybe he had read for himself at some point. It didn’t sound like the same poem when Jehan was reading it. Combeferre appreciated poetry, even claimed to understand it, yet listening to it then was a completely new experience. Something in Jehan's voice made the poem more meaningful to him than the first time he had read it. Then Jehan read one of his own, and Combeferre thought he was falling in love with him all over again. The poem was rough, free, as though it had a mind of its own, or perhaps was reflecting the mind of its creator.

The rest of the morning was spent exploring Combeferre’s vast piles of books, switching from philosophy to scientific texts to novels and back again. They took turns reading, interrupting whenever they found something interesting. Combeferre always had something to add, an extra piece of information that made the writing even more fascinating. Jehan would then respond with his own speculation, and then the book would be forgotten to rapid conversation.  
After a particularly intense discussion of Greek sculpture, Jehan slumped over into Combeferre’s lap with dramatic over-exaggeration.

“That’s it,” he said. “I’m intellectually exhausted as well as jet-lagged.” He had the satisfaction of hearing Combeferre laugh.

“Maybe lunch will help,” he suggested.

Jehan nodded into Combeferre’s leg, making no attempt to stand. “Lunch sounds fantastic.”

“Come on, then,” Combeferre said, disentangling himself from Jehan’s hair and pulling the smaller man to his feet. “I know just the thing.”

 

‘Just the thing’ turned out to be a small, sidewalk restaurant that served all matter of noodles.

“So this is what heaven looks like,” Jehan gasped, staring in wonder at the mound of culinary beauty before him.

“If I had to pick the single best thing about Chicago, it would be the food,” Combeferre agreed.

“And the fall weather,” Jehan added.

“True,” Combeferre said, turning his attention back to his own food. “I’ll have to take you to the lake sometime, though.”

Jehan wrinkled his nose. “It’s too cold.”

“Not in Chicago. It’s never too cold for the beach,” Combeferre said with a grin.

Jehan rolled his eyes, going back to his own meal. When he had finished, he was adamant about getting Combeferre to try the ice cream, which came in rather unusual flavors such as mango and almond.

“This looks precisely like guacamole,” Jehan observed of the green tea flavor, poking it tentatively with a spoon. “But it tastes amazing.”

When he had finished describing the dessert in full detail, they left and headed back to the apartment. Combeferre, however, noticed something in one of the windows.

“Hey, Powell’s has a sale.”

Jehan grabbed his arm, prepared to drag him away if necessary. “Oh, no. We’ll be in there for years, looking at books.”

“Oh, please. I only want to look. They have plenty of poetry, you know.”

Jehan deliberated. “Alright,” he said finally. “But you have to buy me coffee, too.”

“Agreed.”

Combeferre was obviously a regular at the bookstore, judging by the greeting he received from the employees. Jehan followed him to the history section, wandering off on his own exploration when it became clear that they would be there for a while. He was perusing the art history books when Combeferre returned with a stack of books.

“Lucky for me that Powell’s is half-price and the student library pays more than minimum wage,” he said.

“Otherwise you’d probably waste away for lack of books,” Jehan said, rolling his eyes at the memory of the stacks which littered Combeferre’s apartment.

“Next, coffee,” Combeferre said as they paid. He led Jehan to a café just a block from the bookstore, whose line was nearly spilling into the street.

“Worth the wait, I assume?” Jehan asked.

“Well worth it.”

“Combeferre! The usual?” The dark-haired man behind the counter waved at them enthusiastically as he simultaneously rang up the customer in front of him and balanced hot drinks with his other hand.

“Sure, Courfeyrac. Two of them.”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows shot up. “Two, huh? This must be Jehan with you, then. Welcome to America, Jehan!”

“Hi,” Jehan said, slightly taken aback by Courfeyrac’s zeal.

“As I said, he’s very friendly,” Combeferre told him.

“That I am,” Courfeyrac agreed, spraying slightly more whipped cream than was necessary into their coffee. “This is on the house. In honor of successful long-distance relationships!” Jehan and Combeferre both blushed, but accepted the coffee anyway.

“Nice to meet you, Jehan!” Courfeyrac said as they left. Jehan waved goodbye and followed Combeferre back out into the afternoon sun. They took their time getting back to the apartment, trying to avoid spilling whipped cream on the pavement. Combeferre pointed out areas of interest to Jehan – the building where his English lectures were held, the best pizza place in the neighborhood, the dorm Courfeyrac lived in, and Jehan’s favorite, the Robie House.

“Maybe we can go sometime,” Combeferre suggested, admiring the stained glass windows on the second floor.

“I’d like that,” Jehan agreed. They continued on, and Jehan slipped his hand inside Combeferre’s.

 

By the time they got back to the apartment, Jehan was yawning widely.

“Still jetlagged?” Combeferre asked.

“Unfortunately so,” Jehan said wearily. Combeferre pulled him onto the couch, where he proceeded to curl up against his boyfriend’s shoulder. Perhaps it was the jetlag, or perhaps simply the turmoil of the past two days, but Jehan suddenly felt extraordinarily insecure.  
Tracing a pattern on Combeferre’s knee with his finger, he said haltingly, “You know, I was really nervous about coming here.”

“Why is that?” Combeferre asked gently.

Jehan shrugged as best as he could while pressed between the couch and Combeferre.

“It’s just we’d never met before, at least in person, and what if you changed your mind? About me, I mean.”

“That will never happen,” Combeferre promised, threading his fingers through Jehan’s hair.

“I know,” Jehan said, “but I was nervous anyway.”

Combeferre hmmed into his hair. “I was too.” Jehan didn’t know how to reply to that, and before he knew it, he was asleep.

He woke up feeling much more refreshed and considerably happier. Judging by the light outside, he had been asleep for quite a while. Combeferre was now only half-awake, his cheek pressed to the top of Jehan’s head. Jehan turned slightly, and Combeferre blinked at the sudden proximity of Jehan’s face to his. Jehan smiled, kissing Combeferre before he could react.

“You’re in a better mood,” Combeferre noticed, kissing Jehan back.

“That I am,” Jehan replied cheerily, disentangling himself from the other man’s arms and pulling him to his feet. At a sudden whim, he grabbed his phone, plugging it in to Combeferre’s stereo.

Combeferre laughed. “What are you doing?”

“Shh, don’t question it,” Jehan said. “Dance with me.”

Jehan’s music was wild and unrestrained, completely unlike what Combeferre normally listened to, but he found himself liking it in the same way that he loved Jehan for being totally different from himself. Combeferre was not usually one for spontaneous dance parties, nor was he much of a dancer, but with Jehan he became one. Movement came easier with Jehan’s enthusiasm as inspiration, he mused.

Combeferre lifted Jehan off his feet, which wasn’t hard as Jehan hardly seemed to weigh anything. Jehan wrapped his legs around the other man’s waist in return, pressing their foreheads together and giggling with delight rather than humor.  
In a moment of spontaneity, Combeferre tilted his chin up to meet Jehan’s lips, reveling in his nearness. Jehan sighed happily, leaning into Combeferre’s shoulder.

“I love being able to do that,” he said.

“I know,” Combeferre agreed, kissing him again quickly. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

“Shh,” Jehan said. “Don’t think about that.”

The last song on his playlist was coming to an end, and Combeferre set him gently on his feet again. Neither of them moved away, both now painfully aware of their limited time together. They lingered, hands linked, lightly touching, until Combeferre broke the sudden melancholy by dragging Jehan over to the piano.

Jehan smiled, making an effort to lighten the mood. “Going to put on a concert for me?”

“If you like,” Combeferre replied. “What do you want to hear?”

“You choose,” Jehan said, leaning against the side of the instrument to watch. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting – a classical piece, perhaps, something beautiful and logical and organized that was so quintessentially Combeferre – but was pleasantly surprised when the other man launched into a jazzy swing number. Combeferre looked up from the piano, and Jehan couldn’t help but return his grin, infected by the upbeat music. Combeferre glanced back down, switching keys to a more meditative piece, expression changing to one of concentration. Jehan watched, impressed, as Combeferre’s hands danced over the keys effortlessly.

“I didn’t know you played jazz,” Jehan said when he had finished.

“I live in Chicago,” Combeferre laughed. “Of course I do.”

“Naturally,” Jehan replied, coming to sit next to him on the bench.

“I play other things, too. The Romantic composers in particular,” Combeferre continued. He began playing a song Jehan thought he recognized as Chopin. Jehan closed his eyes to listen better, opening them as the final chord faded. A silence followed, similar to the peace Jehan had felt that morning as the sun rose through Combeferre’s windows.

“Thank you,” he said, meeting the other man’s gaze. He meant more than the music, more than the food and the tours and the place to stay, more than he knew how to put into words. From Combeferre’s expression, Jehan thought he understood anyway. Combeferre put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close, and Jehan thought that if it were possible he would never let Combeferre go. In his arms Jehan felt entirely safe, a feeling he was unused to but didn’t want to give up. Combeferre sensed his mood, pulling back reluctantly after a long while and seeming unsure of what to do with himself.

“It’s late,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “Are you hungry?”

Jehan shrugged. “Sure, I suppose.”

As it was already dark, they decided on takeout and ate on the couch, watching a movie Combeferre had found on TV. Neither of them were particularly interested in it, and ended up talking instead, the sound turned down to background noise.

Dinner had more or less improved Jehan’s mood.

“You’ve gotten fake Chinese!” he accused Combeferre teasingly. He pointed to the characters on the side of the carton. “This says absolutely nothing.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “I forgot, you speak about eighty-five languages.”

“Only four,” Jehan protested, poking Combeferre in the side defiantly.

“With bits and pieces of another eighty-one,” Combeferre laughed.

“As if you don’t!”

“Math doesn’t count as a foreign language, Jehan.”

“It should,” he muttered.

“Speaking of,” Combeferre said, “I have class all day tomorrow. I doubt it’ll be much fun for you, so I understand if you want to stay here.”

“I’d like to come.”

Combeferre looked surprised. “Really?”

Jehan nodded. “Sitting around myself will be more boring than whatever you’re doing.”

“Okay. Maybe you’ll like it so much you’ll come to university here,” Combeferre joked.

“Maybe I will,” Jehan replied.

Their conversation turned back to other things until both fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, still beside each other on Combeferre’s couch.

**Author's Note:**

> For Parker, who has put up with me being super busy and me complaining about being super busy for six months now.


End file.
